


I remember

by dizzyingly_dreamy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Christmas Fluff, Extremely Minor Angst, First Kiss, First Time, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Just a happy warm soft fic, M/M, Steve Rogers Feels, Very fluffy, happy feels, my teeth are rotting, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28324761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyingly_dreamy/pseuds/dizzyingly_dreamy
Summary: He hated snow. He couldn't remember why, but he knew that there was a deep, very stubborn hatred of snow. It seemed to run in his DNA, and no matter what angle he took, he hated snow even more than before.For the moment, as he glared up at the sky, thick, cotton flakes drifted down towards the ground, lazily, twinkling softly in the lamplight. They were difficult to see without any light, but he could still see them, feel them in his hair, making his head feel heavy and insulated. It was strange, and he didn't know if he liked the feeling it or didn't. It looked light out, but that was only because the world was shrouded with thick, impenetrable clouds. There was no true darkness when the clouds were shielding them from it.(or, Bucky manages to crawl his way back into a life he likes, and brightens up someone else's just in time for Christmas.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	I remember

**Author's Note:**

> just some happy christmas fluff for all of you guys!
> 
> love you! hope you're having an amazing holiday! and if you aren't, then know that I send hugs and kisses! 
> 
> <3<3<3<3<3

Snow. 

He hated snow. He couldn't remember why, but he knew that there was a deep, very stubborn hatred of snow. It seemed to run in his DNA, and no matter what angle he took, he hated snow even more than before. 

It was just...bad. No. Wait. Bad wasn't the right word. Snow is incapable of being good or bad or even neutral. It does not harbour consciousness, nor morals and it does not make decisions. Therefore, snow just is, and he hated it even more because of its inability to be good or bad. It was an irrational hatred, at least until he remembered the reason why he hated it so much. 

For the moment, as he glared up at the sky, thick, cotton flakes drifted down towards the ground, lazily, twinkling softly in the lamplight. They were difficult to see without any light, but he could still see them, feel them in his hair, making his head feel heavy and insulated. It was strange, and he didn't know if he liked the feeling it or didn't. It looked light out, but that was only because the world was shrouded with thick, impenetrable clouds. There was no true darkness when the clouds were shielding them from it. 

The street where he was standing, immobile, like a statue gathering snow, suddenly burst into light. Every muscle in his body contracted, his pupils turning into pinpricks against the steel blue of his iris's. His foot shifted slightly to a stance that was similar to that of one that a boxer might adopt as the fight began, but there was no need. The light that had burst forth was from lights of hundreds of different colours, strung together and hung along the edges of roofs, around railing as it let up to doors decorated with wreaths, mistletoe hanging from the small roof above the concrete porches. 

His body went lax with shock and awe. The blend of light was coming from either side of the street, dipping his world with rich colour, saturating it. The snowflakes, which had gotten thicker, were reflecting the coloured light like small gems, floating to the ground. He could see them, now. He could see them as they came from high above him and he could see them as they fell into place on the pavement beneath his feet. 

He crouched down, suddenly scared as he reached his flesh hand out and carefully touched the snow. It was powdery soft, and melted from the heat radiating off his hand. It was cold, but it wasn't...it wasn't as cold as he had thought. He picked up a handful and watched it melt. He had heat. A ludicrous thought for anyone else to have, but for him, it was one that gave him hope, that helped him breathe a little easier without even realising. 

He had heat. 

He started to laugh, but stopped abruptly. The sound terrified him, made him glance around to see if anyone(Hydra) had heard him. When he realised that he was completely and utterly alone, he didn't feel sad, or even a sense of longing. He looked back down at his hand, and he reached up with his metal hand to touch his lips. The muscles in his face were doing something, something he hadn't experienced in a long time. It took him a second to remember what it was called, but when he remembered, he felt lighter. 

He was smiling. 

When the laughter bubbled up in the back of his throat, spilling from his lips and floating up, up against the snow because it was lighter than air, he didn't try and stop it. He laughed like he was a child again, discovering snow for the first time all over again. He tilted his face up towards the sky and, instinctively, he stuck out his tongue and caught a snowflake. It melted instantly, but the cool, crispness of its taste only made him laugh a little brighter. 

Oh, he was free. He had escaped, he had made it. He'd survived hell and he had survived heaven. 

It came to him, softly, like a lover in the night, and his laughter subsided, though his joy remained strong. 

He remembered why he hated the snow. He remembered watching his friend, his love, stare out the window at other children who were laughing and playing and creating stories in the rifts of the snowbanks, building men from the ground up and knocking them back down with glee that rivalled all else. His love was small, and frail, and his face was contorted with bitter envy. A blanket was swaddled around his sharp shoulders, a thermometer jutting out between pursed lips. His nose was flushed with blood from the cold, the tips of his ears bright pink. 

The cold had nearly taken the life of his love more times tan he could count, and he had never forgiven it. 

His love...he could not remember his name. He knew it, from the exhibit in the museum, but he could not remember it. Until he did, he would not think it nor speak it. He needed to remember it, or it wouldn't matter. What was information if it went through one ear and out the other, if you heard it but did not learn it? He remembered the burning ache in his chest, the fire that refused to be put out. It heated him no matter what kind of cold he was doused with, and roared to life when his love was in the room. 

He remembered being so scared that his love would see, that he would peer into him and see everything splayed out for him like a display in a candy shop, or a body laid open on a surgical table. He wasn't scared anymore. They (Hydra) had erased fear from his mind and it had not yet seeped back into him, and for that he was grateful. What he was going to do, the reason he was in the streets of residential areas, if there was an ounce of fear in him, he would have turned back long ago. 

He started to walk again, small, shuffling steps that made his boots scrape against the pavement, streaks of violent black against the striking starched white of the snow. The houses he passed were all decorated with the lights that so deeply coloured his vision, all of them a representation of celebrations; all participants apart of one single event that tied them all together temporarily; a nation bound together for a blip before returning to a reality where they were all snarling at each other like rabid dogs. 

The momentary peace would be a relief, he supposed. Though it was a fantasy, it was one they all willingly indulged in. 

He stopped walking, and turned to his right. 

There. A house, small, modest, quaint, pathway dusted delicately with snow. There wasn't a single decorative light, not coloured, not white. The curtained windows were dark, but there was a faint glow from further inside the house. He paused, staring at the small residence, soaking in the details like a sponge. The outer lining of the house was a rich, cherrywood brown, a sharp contrast to the white of the roof covered with snow. The pathway was short, leading up to wooden steps a shade lighter than the outer lining. There was no porch, save maybe two square feet of wooden planks. 

It looked devoid of human attention, and a pit in his stomach formed at the thought. He shoved it aside and stepped carefully towards the door, leaning against the railing as he stepped up. 

He didn't knock. He didn't need to. He could hear the footsteps inside pause, watched as one of the curtained windows lit up, and heard the footsteps approach the other side of the metal door. He waited, because he knew his love was scared, and suddenly the fear doused him, ice cold. He was here, he had made it, but what if he was not wanted? What if his love had not waited for him the last few months, and instead, had found solace and comfort in someone else? 

Fear is what makes you human, Stevie. Don't be scared of being scared. 

The door opened. Light pooled in the two square feet of wooden planks, luminating their small bubble of the world. 

He looked into Steve's (he remembered) eyes, those bright, cobalt blue eyes, sharp with intelligence and intense with colour. They were broken, shattered, but he remembered seeing them like that more than once. He would glue them back together again. He had done it before and he would do it again. He looked tired, but there was no doubt about that being a truth. 

“Buck,” he whispered. His eyes glittered prettily in the light, his tears shimmering and not yet trailing down his cheeks. His face was rough around the edges, and Bucky (he had been given his name again and it filled him up with heat) was mildly surprised to see the scruff there that did not look bad, but it looked new, and strange. He had never been able to produce such rich and thick hair on his face, and Bucky yearned to touch it. 

So he did. He raised his flesh hand that he knew held heat, that he knew that Steve would not flinch away from, and he touched Steve's cheek, the rough stubble pressing pleasantly into his palm. His face broke into a grin, and his vision swam, telling him that he was tearful too. 

“Never thought I'd see the day when you started growing a beard, punk.” Bucky breathed, and his voice took him by surprise with how steady it was, a boat managing to keep afloat in a sea that was determined to swallow it whole with the sheer overwhelming amount of emotion it harboured. Steve choked on his laughter and his hand rose, covering Bucky's, and he was smiling as brightly as the day they first met, Steve's nose bloodied by bullies a few years older than him. 

Steve pulled him forward. Buried his face in the crook of Bucky's neck, crying and laughing like a fool, but Bucky was crying and laughing too. Two fools, hopeless and lost without each other. He wrapped both arms around Steve, his metal one climbing up to his hair, which was shaggy and longer than Bucky ever remembered it being. Steve didn't shy away from the touch of his imposter of an arm, instead, he leaned into it, tears smearing hotly against Bucky's skin like acid. 

“I didn't think I would find you.” Steve whispered, his breath hot and wet against Bucky. Bucky huffed with laughter and buried his nose in Steve's hair, letting his eyes fall closed. He smelled the same, and the feeling of being home twisting and squeezing pleasantly around his stomach and heart. The ache was there, thudding against his ribs steadily and firmly, and it only made him want to be closer. 

“You wouldn't have.” he admitted. “I had to want to find you, and I did.” 

Steve pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, almost dream-like. “How? The team doesn't even know where I am. I disappeared weeks ago.” His arms were still on Bucky's waist, fingers digging into the thick material of the leather jacket he'd found. The pressure was comforting, and Bucky subsonciously leaned into it like a purring cat, his hands falling to Steve's forearms. 

“I'm not sure,” he mumbled, looking away for a fraction of a second. It was almost physically painful to do so, as if he thought that when he looked back up Steve would be gone, and he would be back in the depths of his own mind, creating images to give himself hope, tangled again in Hydra's strings, unable to move or escape. He looked back up almost immediately and broke into a smile. “This place means something to you. To us. I just can't remember it yet.” 

Tears filled Steve's eyes again, making them sparkle and glitter like diamonds. He's always been emotional around me, Bucky thought, and a surge of happiness followed with the memory. Everything was coming back, slowly, in bits and pieces, like putting a puzzle back together blind, but it was working. 

He was pulled inside. Warmth enveloped him, and he released a shuddering sigh as the door was closed softly behind him. He'd grown so accustomed to the cold that the warmth was like an electric shock, and he remembered that warmth really did exist. It wrapped itself around him, dipping beneath his jacket and touching him, tainting him, converting him, again, to a heat lover. 

He showered, because he hadn't been able to, not in a long time, and though he hadn't felt self conscious about his appearance before when he hadn't had a choice, he did now. Steam filled the room like smoke, thick and hot, and it coiled around him as he looked into the mirror, a handprint wiping away the condensation. His eyes, steel blue and brighter than they'd been since the war, stared back at him, scared and shattered. His skin was clean, a luxury he seldom remembered indulging in, along with his hair. 

He didn't like his hair, the way it hung around his face in thick, dripping curtains. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door, padding out and looking at Steve, who was sitting in the living room on a cozy couch, doing nothing. He looked stunned, but the expression faded as he looked up, eyes climbing up Bucky's body until finally resting on his eyes. His cheeks were pink, and Bucky decided that he wanted his cheeks to stay pink, because he looked like a puppy when he blushed. 

“I want to cut my hair.” he said simply. Steve raised his eyebrows, eyes flitting to his hair, which was dripping steadily onto his shoulders and down his chest. Steve nodded and stood, approaching Bucky, stopping only a few inches away. 

Bucky leaned up and gingerly brushed his lips against Steve's. 

When he pulled back, looking as if he'd just been punched, but very very pleased about it, Bucky pointed to the roof with his metal hand. Steve's head tilted up, but his eyes didn't move from Bucky's until they had to, and Bucky smiled because he'd nearly forgotten how endearing everything Steve did was. 

“Oh,” Steve breathed, because his eyes found the mistletoe that someone had placed without Steve noticing. He looked back down at Bucky, eyes slightly less dazed and more determined. He stepped backwards, out from under the mistletoe, confusing Bucky, and stepped back under. Bucky started to laugh, and his heart started to ache, and Steve just smiled as he leaned down and kissed Bucky again, this time more firmly, and this time neither of them could stop grinning, their arms wrapped around the other tightly enough that an onlooker would wonder if they were trying to keep the other from floating away, high up into the sky. 

In a way, they were. 

~

Bucky cuffed the back of Steve's head, his hair freshly trimmed, though the stubble remained per Bucky's request. (It felt brilliant against his skin, and Steve seemed to really like making Bucky feel brilliant.) 

“Ack!” Steve cried, turning around with a fond smile on his face. It hadn't really been a cuff, but Bucky's point had been put across, so he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Steve. “What? What is it, Buck, what'd I do?” Steve asked, though his smile was only growing, so Bucky leaned down and kissed him. 

He liked kissing Steve. He was glad he was allowed to, now, otherwise he would be running out of self control very, very quickly. Steve was a very kissable person. 

“S'more what you didn't do.” Bucky mumbled, gesturing to the bland, empty state of the living room. Steve's brow furrowed. “Christmas, punk. Christmas is in a few days, and you don't have a damned thing to decorate.” Bucky said, throwing his arms up and marching into the living room, gesturing everywhere with a wild, almost depserate expression. It cracked, though, when he looked down at Steve and broke into another smile. 

“There wasn't much of a reason to decorate, Bucky. It wasn't like I had anyone to celebrate with.” Steve said softly. “I left because I'm sick of fighting. I'm sick of trying to be someone I'm not. I'd rather be alone than pretend for the rest of my life.” Bucky's smile faded and he sighed stepping over to Steve and crouching down, his hands placed on either of Steve's knees. 

“You don't gotta fight anymore. We can just--” 

It came to him, but this time it was like a slap across the face. He stopped talking abruptly, eyes shifting and going out of focus. 

“This...neighbourhood...it's the one we used to look at. In Brooklyn. The one we couldn't ever afford to live in.” he murmured, and the memories were pouring into his mind, thick and sticky like molasses, and he was digging through them, piecing them together with his eyes closed. “We would...we walked through here. We pretended that we lived here when we were kids, and then we started thinking about how to save up enough money to live here when we had grown up.” 

He opened his eyes. The memories were there, splayed out like frames from a movie. 

Walking with his arm around Steve's bony shoulders, his shirt hanging off his skin and bones body. He hadn't minded how sharp Steve's edges were, not ever. Hot summer afternoons spent wandering throughout Brooklyn, a time where it was safer for children to do so, and then retreating back to Bucky's house when the bridge of Steve's nose was far too red for comfort. Spreading a small, cool pat of butter over the burns, Steve's cheeks streaked with tears of frustration that were as hot as the sun outside. Bucky making strange faces to make Steve laugh through those tears, and pulling him into a hug and never understanding why his ma looked at him and Steve like that. 

She'd known, then. He just hadn't seen it at fourteen. She'd known and kept it a secret to protect them from a world that sought out difference and locked it up.

“Known what?” 

Bucky blinked, eyes focusing on Steve who was leaning forward now, face devoid of the pain it had been so rich with just a few moments before. Bucky hadn't realised he'd been speaking aloud, but he didn't regret it. 

“Known how much I love you.” he said simply, and the weight of what he'd spoken hit him only after the words left his mouth. Surely they couldn't mean as much as they seemed to? Steve had to know that Bucky had loved him so wholly and thoroughly since the day they met. He had to. 

Steve's expression betrayed that he hadn't known. It was a mixture of shock and affection, and it was perfectly endearing, painted across his features that hadn't changed from the day Bucky left for the war. The serum had changed Steve's body, but it hadn't changed his bones, his face, him. It had allowed Steve to become what he was on the inside, what his body failed to give him naturally. 

“You...you didn't know?” Bucky breathed. Steve slowly shook his head. Bucky lurched up, holding Steve tight and close. “Always. Always.” 

Steve's arms tightened around his torso. “Me too. It never...it never went away. I thought...I thought something was wrong with me.” 

Bucky choked on his laughter because his throat had constricted with emotion, and he wondered if he was always going to be this emotional. “Nothing was wrong with you, kid. Something was wrong with the world.” 

They made love, then. Steve seemed incapable of finding the words to express what he felt, so he simply laid Bucky out on the wood floor and showed him. Bucky would never get sick of being shown, or being told. He could never grow sick of Steve. He hadn't then, he wouldn't now.

~

“It's a bit big, isn't it?” Steve said mildly. 

Bucky put his hands on his hips and shook his head, staring proudly up at the fir tree in the living room, the very top brushing the surface of the roof. It wasn't big, it was huge, but they'd never been able to afford a real tree, and Bucky would be damned if anyone was going to stop them now. It had the richest colour out of all the trees they had looked at, and Bucky had immediately fallen in love and demanded that they take it home right away. Steve had just grinned and nodded to the salesman who nodded and rushed away to get more people to help. 

“You know what this means,” Steve said, walking up behind Bucky and sliding his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky's hands moved forward and covered Steve's, his eyes still gazing happily up at their monstrosity of a tree. He hummed, unsure of what this meant. “I'm gonna have to go and buy you presents now.” 

Bucky's eyebrows hiked up his forehead and he turned around, still locked firmly in Steve's arms. “Really?” 

Steve laughed kindly, bumping his nose against Bucky's. “Yes, of course. Though, I don't think you want the same things as seventy years ago.” Bucky smiled and kissed him briefly, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. 

“I'll love whatever you get me.” he said, and he meant it. “Guess that means I'm getting you stuff too.” he added, and Steve blushed. He blushed. Bucky felt his heart start to melt and kissed him again, because he really didn't have any say in the matter. “I'm going out first.” he burst, and he rushed to the front door, scrambling to get his boots on that Steve had bought him a couple days before. 

“Are you gonna be okay on your own?” Steve asked, and though he was smiling fondly, Bucky could see the worry etched beneath. He straightened up and looked towards one of the windows at the white world beyond. 

He nodded. “Yeah, I think so. I'm not gonna be long. Then you can go and I can wrap stuff.” Steve nodded, leaned forward and kissed Bucky carefully. He grabbed the keys off the top of the shelf that hung their jackets and dropped them into Bucky's open palm. Bucky smiled and turned, opening the front door and walking out, snow crunching gently under his feet. 

The bike, which had become 'the' bike after Bucky had proven that he still knew how to drive it, was parked in the small driveway that doubled as an entrance to the small and modest backyard. He lifted the tarp, shook off the snow, and slid the keys into the ignition, grabbing the helmet off the seat and pulling it on. There were bags on the end of the bike, and Bucky knew that he wasn't going to be able to get Steve anything that wouldn't fit inside them. 

Not that he needed to go bigger. If he had learned anything from being dirt poor, it was that you didn't need huge, pretty things to make life a little happier.

~

He was toying with it, though he knew he shouldn't. He should put it back into its little velvet box and tuck it back into the back of the drawer where he kept his rather limited supply of clothing. It was soft, and it felt smooth against his fingertips. His skin, his heat, had warmed it to the point where he knew if he tried hard enough, he'd be able to bend it, and manipulate it into another shape. 

He picked up the velvet box and put it back, thumb brushing the small words in his own printing. Til the end of the line. 

Self consciousness hit him like a brick to the face and he snapped the box shut. Maybe Steve wouldn't like it. Maybe he would think it was too soon, that they were rushing into something before Bucky managed to figure out what was going on inside his head. The Winter Soldier was still there, a voice in the back of his head, but the Soldier liked Steve, maybe as much as Bucky did, and he rarely said anything to Bucky while he was with Steve. 

Steve might not want to get married. Bucky couldn't imagine being happy without Steve, but Steve had--

This was stupid. Bucky shook his head, running his fingers through his short hair, getting to his feet and tucking the box back in the drawer. He used one of Steve's stolen shirts, a soft, worn one that never stopped smelling like Steve, to cover it up.

He and Steve had stuck together through heaven and hell. There was no real reasoning behind his fears. 

“Mmbuck?” Steve slurred, and Bucky looked over at their bed, where Steve was tangled in the sheets, barely awake. 

“I'm here.” he murmured, climbing back into bed and curling up next to his love, flesh hand cupping the side of his face. He leaned forward and kissed Steve's sleep-pliant and warm lips, making Steve smile and shimmy closer, slowly wrapping his arms around Bucky. “Did I wake you?” Bucky whispered, his nose bumping against Steve's. Steve nuzzled into his cheek, smiling lazily. 

“Yes,” his lips were barely moving, his voice a low rumble in the back of his throat. “But I've never minded being woken up by you.” Bucky smiled audibly, and he pecked Steve's lips, though Steve easily chased him, kissing him a little more firmly. Bucky sighed, more happy than he could ever remember being, and shifted so he was mostly underneath Steve, hands dragging slowly down Steve's sides, fingers curling under the waistband of his boxers. Steve smiled as he kissed Bucky, straddling his hips. 

“It's Christmas.” Steve murmured, pulling back to look down at Bucky. Bucky hummed, glancing at the small digital clock by their bedside, mildly distracted by Steve's hands splayed out on his chest, thumbs tracing tiny circles into his ribs. Steve was right; it was four am, December twenty-fifth. Steve shifted his weight slightly, but Bucky didn't turn to look; he was momentarily enchanted by the fact that it was, truly, really, Christmas, and he was spending it with the love of his life. 

He turned back to find himself eye to eye with a ring. 

“Oh--” Bucky inhaled sharply. His heart skipped a beat in his chest, and his eyes shifted up to Steve's. He sat up, keeping Steve in his lap, his legs wrapped around his waist, and carefully took the small, velvet box from Steve's hands. 

It was a small, golden band, and Bucky reckoned that it was designed to fit him and him alone, like the one he'd gotten Steve. He ran his thumb along the arch of the silver band, and he felt the small, gentle grooves that read til the end of the line, in Steve's elegant scrawl. Bucky's face split into a goofy grin and he threw Steve off of him, making Steve cry out in shock. 

“Bucky--” Steve began, and Bucky could hear that he thought he'd done something wrong, that he'd fucked everything up, but Bucky couldn't turn around and reassure him because he needed to get the ring. He dug around in the dresser, Steve's ring for him clutched in his metal hand, careful not to crush it, when his fingertips brushed against the box. 

“Got it--” Bucky murmured, and he jumped back into bed, shuffling closer to Steve, who looked absolutely terrified, an expression that he seldom let reach the surface. Bucky leaned up and kissed him, slowly, and when he pulled back, he held out the velvet box for Steve to take. Steve's box for Bucky was a dark navy blue, while Bucky's box for Steve was a rich purple colour. 

Steve opened it, and he broke into a smile. “Shit,” he breathed, and he took the ring out, sliding it on. “Guess that means yes?” Steve asked, and though he was teasing, Bucky felt his lips spread into a wide grin, one of the biggest since the war, and he nodded. 

“Course, punk, I'd never think of saying no to you.” he murmured, and Steve snickered, pulling Bucky on top of him. He grasped for the box he'd given Bucky and popped it open, taking out the ring and reaching out for Bucky's metal hand. 

There was a twinge of guilt, because this wasn't his arm, and there was no blood running through it, nothing. Steve, as always, saw right through him and leaned up, sliding it on regardless of what Bucky looked like.

“Buck, you're beautiful. You've never not been beautiful, actually, and that goes for right now, too.” Steve murmured, pressing kisses to Bucky's throat, his ringed hand coming up and sliding up into Bucky's hair. Bucky's breathing hitched, and he said nothing. “I'll spend the rest of my life showing you, if that's what you need.” 

“Stevie,” Bucky choked, and Steve flipped them, Bucky's legs around Steve's waist, Steve's teeth dragging along his collarbones. He moved to the scars on Bucky's shoulder, and he paid careful and loving attention to them, making a lump form in the back of Bucky's throat, constricting his airway. He kissed his way back up to Bucky's mouth, and Bucky tangled his metal hand in Steve's hair, keeping him close. 

“I love you,” Steve whispered. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” each phrase was seared into Bucky's skin with Steve's mouth, and Bucky was overwhelmed, so overwhelmed, but he never wanted it to end. 

“I love you,” Bucky breathed, barely audible, and Steve swallowed up the words, kissing Bucky again, holding his face, cradling him. 

~

“Eggnog? With rum?” Steve asked, making a face as Bucky pulled on one of his t-shirts, hickeys and lovebites scattered across his torso now hidden by the cotton. Bucky turned, completely naked from the waist down and raised his eyebrows at Steve, who was just as marked up as he was, though considerably less concerned with getting dressed. “You know alcohol doesn't affect us.” Steve added, standing and grabbing Bucky's ass to make him scootch out of the way. 

Bucky grinned and pressed a kiss to Steve's shoulder as he bent down to get underwear. “Shoot. I was hoping to get super drunk so that I could finally kiss you.” he said, faking a pout, and Steve gave him an unimpressed look as he shimmied into the boxers that Bucky personally thought should be their own form of porn. “Flavour, Steve, it's about flavour. And, we've never been able to afford rum and eggnog before!” 

Steve hummed, silver band catching the soft sunlight that was pouring through the open bedroom window. Bucky grabbed his own pair of underwear and pulled them on, stretching his arms above his head, eyes on the golden band around his own finger. He grinned. 

“I don't want a ceremony.” Steve said, and he walked over, tucking his face into the crook of Bucky's neck, hands on Bucky's hips. Bucky shook his head in agreement as his hands came down around Steve's shoulders. “Don't have anyone to invite, anyways,” Steve added. 

“It doesn't have to be that way.” Bucky replied, voice soft and careful. 

“Yes, yes it does.” Steve said, and his tone was firm but not offensive. “I'm done fighting. I'm done with you fighting. Shit, Bucky, all I wanted to do was come home to you until the day we died. They...wherever they go, trouble always follows. I want you, and that's it.” 

He pulled back and Bucky smiled at him. “I'm more than okay with that. I don't want you to fight ever again, Stevie. We'll just stay hidden, stay here, where no one can find us. My little wife.” 

Steve smacked him on the arm and walked out of their bedroom, grinning. Bucky followed, not watching the rather delicious way Steve's hips looked as he walked. 

An hour later, a fire was blazing brightly in the fireplace, the couch was turned so it faced the fire, and they were curled up with eggnog, and rum. Their legs were a tangled mess, hidden beneath a blanket that was so soft that Bucky said it had to be made out of kittens. Steve had made a horrified face at the prospect, which made Bucky laugh into his mug of eggnog. The tree, decorated to the point of bursting, had a decent amount of presents beneath it, though they hadn't so much as touched them yet. 

“I don't think I miss getting drunk.” Bucky said after a few moments of comfortable silence. Steve raised his eyebrows, mouth full of eggnog. Bucky smirked into his mug, sipping at it before speaking again. “Generally speaking, I did it because I couldn't get you out of my head. The dames were just for the sexual frustration.” 

“Lucky you,” Steve muttered. “I didn't have an outlet.” 

“Sure you did. Got your right hand, dontcha?” 

“It is not the same and you know that.” Steve said, though there was an amused smile on his face, and his cheeks were pink. 

Silence fell again, broken only by slurps of eggnog and cracks from the fire. Bucky didn't think he'd ever be able to come down from this high. Steve was his, and he was Steve's. They were allowed to be together. They were allowed to get married. 

“We really went into the future, huh, Buck?” Steve breathed, eyes on the fire, as if he'd read Bucky's mind. 

“Yeah, we did.” Bucky replied, and he slid his hand into Steve's, the warm, firm silver band pressing against his fingers. Steve squeezed him gently, and Bucky squeezed back. 

He decided, with a small smile, that even if they had the chance, he'd be happy staying in the future with Steve. 

~

merry christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated but not necessary :) i just hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


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